"Loop the bridge," she murmurs, her head lolling. "Drop the bass out. Make it... empty. White space."
"Cutting lows," I acknowledge. I automate the fader.
The track cycles. A hypnotic, ambient wash of sound.
"Better," she sighs. "So much better."
She leans.
It is slow. Inevitable. Gravity claiming an exhausted object.
Her head tips sideways. It connects with my shoulder.
I freeze.
I go absolutely statue still. I engage every core muscle to ensure I do not flinch, do not shift, do not startle her.
She is warm. Solid. Her hair tickles my neck, carrying that scent of ozone and citrus, now mixed with the faint, comforting smell of stale tour bus air.
She lets out a long, shuddering breath, and I feel the tension drain out of her body like water. She settles. Her weight presses against my deltoid.
Contact. Sustained contact.
My biological imperative screams:Turn. Wrap. Hold. Bury nose in hair. Smell.
My logic processor counters:Do-Nothing Protocol Active. Movement = Violation. Displacement = Waking. Waking = Shame.
I stop typing. My hand hovers over the spacebar. If I click it, the sound might wake her.
I look at the time code on the screen. 03:14:22.
I initiate a shallow breathing protocol. Diaphragm control. Minimal chest expansion.
She twitches in her sleep, nuzzling closer to the rough fabric of my shirt. She makes a small sound, a tiny hum of contentment.
I am a shelf. I am a wall. I am furniture.
I am the happiest furniture in existence.
One hour passes. The loop plays silently in my head; I can see the colors on the screen shifting slowly, deep blues and soft grays.
Two hours pass. My arm is numb. The pins and needles are excruciating. I embrace the pain. It is data. It confirms I am still holding position.
At the three-hour mark, a shadow detaches itself from the hallway darkness.
Cal enters. He is wearing pajama bottoms and a oversized wool jumper.
He sees us. He sees Zia slumped against me, drooling slightly on my shoulder. He sees me, rig-rigid, eyes bloodshot, staring at the monitor with the intensity of a bomb disposal tech.
He doesn't speak. He doesn't smile, though his eyes crinkle at the corners.
He moves silently to the kitchenette. The kettle boils, he must have pre-boiled it to avoid the noise.
He places a mug of tea on the coaster at the edge of the desk. Within her reach, not mine.
Earl Grey. Milk. Two sugars. 62 degrees.
He catches my eye. He gives a microscopic nod.Good lad.
